By C.A. Skeet
So Monday, January 5, was Marjorie Taylor Greene’s last day in office. Thank you for your service. Please allow us to show you the door. And do bundle up; it’s cold outside.
I don’t say this with any intent to offend, as I have nothing personal against her, but she was never sought after for her Augustinian sagacity. She was (at one time) a dependable Republican vote in a razor-thin majority. She also proved periodically useful as a rabble rouser of sorts, a Republican answer to the Jasmine Crocketts of the world.
For reasons known only to her, however, she chose to follow that losing rabbit hole: engaging in a public spat with the King of Public Spats. She’ll soon discover, like so many before her, that the left will use her for an interview or two before discarding her as a useful idiot past the point of diminishing returns. She now joins Joe Walsh, the McCains and Cheneys, the National Review crew, and others in that obscure limbo aptly described by Dante Alighieri as such: “The heavens, that their beauty not be lessened, have cast them out, nor will deep Hell receive them – even the wicked cannot glory in them.”
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